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Mr. Ramsay, or something like that.    He showed
his uneasiness quite clearly now by saying, with
some irritation, that, anyhow,  Scott (or was it
Shakespeare?) would last him his lifetime.    He
said it irritably.    Everybody, she thought, felt
a little  uncomfortable,   without  knowing  why.
Then Minta Doyle, whose instinct was fine, said
bluffly, absurdly, that she did not believe that
any   one   really   enjoyed   reading   Shakespeare.
Mr. Ramsay said grimly (but his mind was turned
away again) that very few people liked it as much
as they said they did.    But, he added, there is
considerable merit in some of the plays neverthe-
less, and Mrs. Ramsay saw that it would be all
right for the moment anyhow;  he would  laugh
at Minta, and she, Mrs. Ramsay saw, realising
his extreme anxiety about himself, would, in her
own way, see that he was taken care of, and praise
him, somehow or other.    But she wished it was
not necessary:   perhaps it was her fault that it
was necessary.    Anyhow, she was free now to
listen to what Paul Rayley was trying to say about
books one had read as a boy.    They lasted, he
said.    He had read some of Tolstoi at school.
There was one he always remembered, but he had
forgotten the name.    Russian names were im-
possible, said Mrs. Ramsay.    " Vronsky," said
Paul.    He remembered that because he always